


shelter

by katarasvevo



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bonding, Friendship, Gen, Investigation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarasvevo/pseuds/katarasvevo
Summary: Then, there’s a tap on Hank’s shoulder. It’s Connor, and he’s holding something in his hand.“Jesus, Connor, you got an umbrella?” Hank says, incredulous, folding his arms across his chest.Hank didn’t expect this at all, because it’s Connor, for crying out loud. Robot, android, machine - a marvel of technology, not biology. Wires, and gears, and plastic, and thirium.(Four things Hank learns about Connor.)





	shelter

**i.**

Connor’s there when Hank arrives. Of fucking course.

“Good morning, Lieutenant. I trust that you’re well?” Connor says from where he’s sat on a chair, head tilting to the side.

Hank rubs a hand over his face. His palm itches, brushing past day-old stubble. His head feels like someone struck a hammer to his temple. It’s too early in the day for this bullshit. “Yeah, yeah, you too, I guess,” he says, rolling back his shoulders. “So what you’ve got there? Any news on how we’re gonna catch that thing?”

Connor rises from his seat, smiling, and Jesus. It still throws Hank off balance, how human Connor seems sometimes. It’s there in the idiosyncrasies: the hand gestures, the little actions, the walking patterns. The looks, too - face, body, arms, and legs.

But - _but._

From afar, it’s difficult to distinguish human from android. But up close - it’s easy. Androids don’t have souls. Not like Hank believes in the high kingdom of heaven, but humans have _warmth._ They have _spirit._ And that’s something you can tell from a five-second glance alone; no matter what, you can’t manufacture the quality of being human. That’s the line that’ll separate these plastic machines from living creatures forever.

Unless the techies running the show get that magic trick right. At this point, everyone’s probably assuming they’re up to that challenge. And that’ll sure be the day: humans and androids, walking side by side. Fully indistinguishable. _Interchangeable_. It’s a scary thought.

Hank shudders.

“According to the data I’ve collected back at the station, it’s safe to assume that the target will travel to the warehouse next,” Connor says, that optimistic voice straddling the line between artificial and not. Hank told him to stop sounding so fucking creepy. And now Connor’s doing that - trying to. Crazy. “I ran some calculations, and came to the conclusion that it’s the most viable hideout for the deviant. Of course, there’s a chance that it could’ve gone elsewhere, but for now this is our safest bet.”

Hank scoffs. “So many damn perps gone off the rails, huh?” He looks out the window, to where his car is idling by the sidewalk. It seems that there’ll be rain soon. The clouds are a gunmetal shade of grey. Hank needs some coffee - stat.

Connor’s looking at a potted plant when Hank finally turns around. He’s rubbing his hands together. His LED ring blinks once.

“Hey, what the fuck are you looking at? Let’s get a move on,” Hank says, pushing open the glass door.

“An anthurium andraeanum, a flowering plant species native to Colombia and Ecuador. I think it would look good in your living room. It would certainly brighten things up,” Connor answers serenely, and it’s only when they’re hitting the road that Hank realizes Connor meant to be a little shit.

Thing’s got a sense of humour, Hank’ll give him that.

 

**ii.**

They’ve got some time - it’s not like the deviant android’s going anywhere in its state - so Hank pulls up at the nearest gas station to grab a cup of coffee.

It’s a regrettable decision; it’s not so much coffee as it is tar. The consistency is that terrible. Even Sumo’s shit would probably taste even better than this. At least it burns, going down.

Hank makes a face, jams it in the cup holder, and starts the car.

The music station that comes on blares out Top 100 hits, a lot of them based on android-created sounds - kind of insane. But whatever, Hank doesn’t really give a crap; like, it’s the future. The future’s been bleak for years now. Android this, android that, there’s practically no point for humans anymore.

Hank glances at Connor - Connor, with that body that will never die, not really. Connor, with those surprising mannerisms that make Hank wonder about just how many actions have been programmed into him.

“Do you enjoy this band?” It takes a moment to register that Connor’s talking to him.

“Uh,” Hank says, swearing lightly as the car up front cuts lanes without warning. “It’s okay, I guess. Kinda annoying, though.” Then, he adds with a dry laugh, “Like you.”

“Would you like me to switch the stations to something more agreeable?” Connor asks, those dark eyes fixed firmly on Hank, polite and cordial.

Hank snorts. “Eh, do whatever you want.” His fingers curl around the wheel.

The band’s overpowering vocals are soon replaced by piano keys being played. Well, it certainly complements the shitty weather.

“Jesus, Connor, you trying to put me to sleep with this Beethoven business?” Hank says, snickering.

“Claude Debussy, actually,” Connor corrects. “ _La fille aux cheveux de lin_.” He says this in perfect French. And Debussy who?

“Right, perfect,” Hank says. “Definitely knew that. Definitely cared.” At least it’s putting him in a slightly better mood.

“This music, I like it,” Connor muses after a while. “There’s something calming about it. Maybe you should listen to this in the future, Lieutenant.” The car passes through a shaft of sunlight. Hank catches the way it illuminates Connor’s face for a fleeting second, the way it sort of turns him into a real person. Human, alive and breathing.

Hank shakes his head, because it’s just the trick of the light. Weird.

“When I’m about to die, maybe,” Hank says, finally pulling up at their destination.

 

**iii.**

There’s no sign of the deviant anywhere when they arrive. They scour the warehouse top to bottom, left to right, corner to corner, and still nothing. No blue blood, no traces, nada, zilch. They could’ve missed a spot, true. Overlooked signs. But the bottomline is, the deviant doesn’t seem to be here - like, at all - and there’s simply no use beating a dead horse into another plane of existence.

It’s a waste of time.

They should move on.

Connor is waiting by the entrance when Hank leaves the big room with all the rusty forklifts and upturned pallet racks. He’s doing the coin trick again, that elaborate one-handed move. His head’s lowered, and he doesn’t seem to be paying attention, but his fingers are doing all the work, the movements nimble and precise.

The coin leaves his palm, arcs into the air. Then it disappears underneath his thumb, and makes a swift reappearance, rolling smoothly along his knuckles before flipping upwards again.

“Why do you keep doing that, Connor?” Hank says gruffly, running a hand through his hair. It’s kind of ticking him off.

The coin makes one last clink before disappearing into Connor’s pocket. “Because it’s fun, I suppose,” he says, lifting his head and walking towards Hank. “Stimulates the senses.” Another one of Connor’s weird jokes.

“So, the thing’s not here. Now what?” Hank says, his arm making a grand sweep of the area.

“We could try the abandoned residential complex a couple of blocks down,” Connor says. “It’s our second best option; it can’t have gone far with its weakened biocomponents.”

“If we keep running on speculation, we’re eventually going to end up in a dead end. Let’s just hope you’re right this time,” Hank says, pushing open the door so that they can leave.

It’s the sound that gets to him first: a pitter-patter on the sidewalks, on the rooftops. Next the visuals: light sheets of rain falling from the sky. And lastly, the smell: earth mixed with asphalt.

Hank fucking hates rain.

“Great, another shitty thing to add to my day,” Hank says, looking at where his car is parked farther than ideal. Why couldn’t he have pulled it up closer?

“We should make a run for it, then,” Connor says, and Hank gives him a curious look.

Hank coughs. He idly drags the heel of his shoe against the ground. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Connor says, this time with a smile.

A _smile._ Huh.

 

**iv.**

The next day, they pick up where they left off on the investigation - an empty house close to a Digi Groceries store. From there, they branch off but it’s proving difficult to find a solid lead. Everywhere they go, there are obstructions to be expected.

Hank takes a break by getting one of those rubber-tasting sandwiches in a nearby convenience store, and there’s Connor walking around, like he’s browsing through the wares. It’s such a mindless action, that it gets Hank thinking that maybe he’s truly alive after all, for real, emotions genuine instead of synthetic.

Hank tosses his empty wrapper into a trash chute and leaves.

When they reach a corner, it’s raining again. The skies are matte grey. The sun’s a crescent-shaped sliver, hidden behind clouds. It’s always so grey in this damn city.

“Not again,” Hank mutters, stretching out a palm beyond the awning’s shade.

It comes away drenched. Jeez. Well, whatever, not like Hank has any choice.

Then, there’s a tap on Hank’s shoulder. It’s Connor, and he’s holding something in his hand.

“Jesus, Connor, you got an umbrella?” Hank says, incredulous, folding his arms across his chest.

Hank didn’t expect this at all, because it’s Connor, for crying out loud. Robot, android, machine - a marvel of technology, not biology. Wires, and gears, and plastic, and thirium. Connor should only do what he’s been programmed to. But sometimes, he doesn’t, and it’s kind of surreal.

“I figured that you’d find it a better alternative to walking in the rain, _Hank,_ ” Connor says - and there, Hank sees it again: that smile that maybe, just maybe, is kind of expectant.

Hank blinks, then lets his hands drop to his sides. “What’s gotten into you?” he murmurs, and again, maybe there’s awe in his tone.

“Shelter from a storm,” Connor says simply, and for a moment Hank sees him - _Cole,_ Cole holding an umbrella and saying those same words to him once upon a time. That was eons ago. Lifetimes.

“Well,” Hank says.

Something strange happens in this moment. Like some kind of disorienting lens has slipped over his vision. Because here, in this very now, there is no Connor the android - just Connor being Connor. An entity separate from his body. A consciousness that seems strangely too real, too complex, too developed to comprehend.

Hank doesn’t know how it’s possible. But they once said men couldn’t walk on moons, so there’s nothing too impossible anymore. That’s the world Hank lives in, now.

_Really, what does it mean to be alive?_

Connor holds out the umbrella. Hank accepts it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> that hank & connor good ending scene :') also idk what im doing tbh, came here right after finishing ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
